


NeoScum Noir

by LookWhosFhtagn



Category: Neoscum (Podcast)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookWhosFhtagn/pseuds/LookWhosFhtagn





	NeoScum Noir

The hot July sun had finally slipped below the horizon. The grand line where the Gulf of Mexico met the heavens had turned into a brilliant streak of gold set between bands of pure sapphire. Sea birds cried out in the distance, rhythmically silenced by the slap of water against the schooner’s hull. And on the bow of the proud lady Xanadu stood a man, bare to the world except for the ink upon his skin. His long, ruddy blond locks were pulled back, sweeping over his shoulders as the Caribbean breeze picked up. The sun had worn his skin, given him the rough complexion that denoted sailors of these climes. He placed the dark amber bottle of rum to his lips and let the final slug of the blissful burn pour over his tongue, kindling the fire in his belly.

“Well, alright then…” he said to the wind, before hurling the empty bottle into the sea, watching it bob like a buoy before the deep took it.

The brilliant, gleaming hues of sunset quickly faded to twilight, and then the calming yellow glow of moonlight with flickering stars as accents. All the while, Daiquiri Rambeaux set sail for the shore. He had never made a delivery to this cove before, but the payment was too good to resist. Besides, wish his natural charm and a sawed-off shotgun, he felt more than capable of handling anything that went sideways. As the ocean winds picked up and chilled his naked flesh, Daq finally decided to get dressed, putting on his usually dungarees and a loose cotton shirt. The broad straw hat went on next, held down by a chin strap to keep it from blowing away. And lastly, the hip holster for the mare’s leg he called “Shirley”. He was ready for business.

As Xanadu pulled into the shallow waters of the coast, he dropped anchor, lighting a small signal lantern off the port side. The shutters noisily clacked the signal, blinking the pattern. A similar light popped up on the shore, blinking its reply. Under the veil of moonlight, three small row boats crept along the rolling tides. They came alongside, heaving over lines and lashing themselves to Xanadu. Daq dropped a cargo net over the side, helping the workers onboard. Eventually, a thinner, uncalloused hand crossed the gunwale, revealing its owner to be a short, slender elf in a seersucker suit with thin pencil moustache. His hair was pulled into a bun, held under a designer hat to match the suit’s material.

“Thank you,” the elf said with a British accent, dusting himself off.

“De rien,” Rambeaux replied with a tip of his own hat and a dashing glance. Daq was ever the charmer: a devil and an angel bound in one man.

The crew of humans, elves, and dwarves all went to the hold, getting the crates of liquor and carrying them topside. Plenty of fine Cuban rum for the masses to enjoy and wash away the harsh reality of the Gilded Cage they all called home. It was a place that Daq could only stomach for so long before he had to return to the freedom of the high seas.

Daq turned to look at the elf in the suit. “You know, I was expecting Javier to be here. He’s been my point of contact this whole time.”

The mustachioed elf stammered, patting the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “Well, Javier’s been really, really busy. I decided to take some work off his plate. Let him take a nice vacation in Aruba, you know?”

Daq nodded, rubbing his stubble with his fingertips. “That’s mighty kind of you.” There was a pregnant pause, then the Cajun spoke. “Except that Javier hated Aruba. Never shut up about it.” In a flash, the gun was out of the holster and in his hand, pointed at the gentleman. “You got ten seconds to explain yourself befo-”

But by that point, the elf had sprung to the side. The roar of the shotgun shattered the silence of the cool Caribbean night, causing some of the men to drop their crates with a clatter.

“Merde, vous êtes rapide,” the sailor cursed, cycling the gun’s lever and chambering another shell.

“I don’t know what you said,” the elf said, “I can only assume it’s rude because it’s French.” He produced a butterfly knife from the breast pocket of his coat, lunging at Rambeaux. Steel met steel as the blade clattered against the gun’s barrel, a desperate block in the nick of time. The two wrestled before both knife and gun slipped from their hands, skidding across the deck. They locked eyes, sharing an intense moment before dashing after their weapons. The smaller elf was much faster, and Daq also had the workers to contend with, who lunged at him and tried to wrestle him to the ground.

The elf with the pencil moustache rolled forward, grabbing both the shotgun and the knife, readying both back at Daq. “Freeze, you d-”

That was when one of the stevedores collided with him, tossed through the air by the rum runner. A toppled heap that writhed in an attempt to right itself while Rambeaux seized the moment to pick up his gun and point it at the elf, who had managed to roll out from under his henchman. As the elf stood up, his had was removed, revealing his long hair had fallen down in cascading tresses. The thin black moustache had come askew, strands of costume glue stringing between it and the elf’s porcelain skin.

“So, you’re a woman, huh?” The gun stayed, pointing straight at her face.

The elf sneered. “What of it?” Her tone was arrogant, heated and haughty. “You think you won because I’m a woman?”

“Don’t think I’m some gallivanting chivalric type. Only an idiot would think a woman needs a man to protect her.” His lips pulled back in a smirk. “I won because I’m Daiquiri Q. Rambeaux and I’m the best there’s ever been.”

Her expression actually softened, surprised by his response. “Oh. Well, then…”

“So how about you tell me why you are trying to take Javier’s hooch?” Daq stepped back and leaned casually against the edge of the ship.

“It’s not Javier’s, it’s mine,” she explained with an air of exasperation. “Well, not mine. My father’s. But it’s more mine than Javier’s that’s for damn sure!”

The cogs turned in Daq Rambeaux’s mind. “Your father? This booze is for…you mean to tell me you’re the Judge’s kid?” The brigand imagined what would have happened if he had fired at her. “Mon Dieu, what the fuck are you doing here?”

She blushed a little. “I’ve been working on getting more involved in the family business.”

He glared. “Your dad has no idea you’re here, does he?”

She crossed her arms stubbornly. “No, and I don’t require his permission. I’m an adult and I can do as I wish.”

Frustrated, Daq turned away, running his fingers over his taut, greasy hair. “You’re an adult whose dad is a crime boss. People need his permission to take a piss, much less handle his merchandise!”

There was an awkward silence, only the surf breaking the still night air. Finally, the woman spoke. “Listen, you don’t have to tell anyone about this.”

“Damn right I don’t!” Daq exclaimed. “If he found out I was this close to ventilating you? I’d have my boys strung up from the mainsail and my ass scraping barnacles off the keel!”

She smiled at his colorful expressions. “You know, you’re a funny man. And I like your tattoos.”

Daq was taken aback by her transition from a deadly, knife-wielding warrior to someone who compliments a total stranger. “Thanks. I like your moustache. Well, I did. And you’ve got some real moxie. Faster than a speeding bullet.”

The workers sensed the natural lull in the tension and resumed loading their boats. Daq returned his sidearm to its holster. The elven woman was dusting herself off and putting her knife back in her coat.

“I didn’t catch your name,” the rum runner said, curious who this mystery woman was, aside from the Judge’s daughter.

“Oh, right.” She stooped down and picked up her hat, struggling to stuff as much of her freed mane as she could under it. “Sorry. I’m Cassandra. Charmed.” Rather than a gentile curtsey, Cassandra held her hand out for a firm shake that Daq readily accepted. “But for now, just call me by my alias: Samuel “Pox” Malone.”

“Well then, nice to meet you.” Daq laughed warmly, the hardened edge of a criminal showing the mirthful heart of a sailor underneath. “Pox, huh? This Sam Malone alter ego of yours some kind of scourge of the underworld. Creeps in like a plague over the Western Front?”

“What? No!” she snickered, like it was the dumbest thing in the world. “It’s the coat.” She motioned to her suit. “Keep so many things in these pockets. Do you know how much I would kill for something with this many pockets?”

The two of them smiled, staring out over the side at the stars and the moon as the last of the crates were stowed in the row boats. “Well, sorry I almost blew your brains out,” Daq said.

She shrugged. “No harm, no foul.” As her men moved to the cargo ladder, she followed, but turned back. “I plan on getting the next shipment too. So, don’t shoot me then either.”

“I’ll do my best,” he joked.

She gracefully swung herself over the side. “And who knows, maybe I’ll see you before then?” And with, she was gone, slipping down the ropes and landing like a cat in the dark.

The boats cast off, making their way back to the shore. Daiquiri Rambeaux looked out at them and shook his head with a wild grin. “C’est possible…”


End file.
